The Wild Swans
by end1essly
Summary: Based on the classic story by Hans Christian Andersen, an AU Medieval Dramione. Cast from her home and forced into the wild forest, will Hermione be able to save the cruel fate of her brothers and find true love?


**This is definitely AU, so please don't harp on me regarding it. Kthanx.**

_I don't own the characters from Harry Potter, or the storyline written by Hans Christian Andersen._

The Wild Swans_  
_

They called her the Quiet One. To be honest, Hermione found this nickname to be superfluously mindless, seeing as anyone with seven boisterous older brothers would tend to keep to him or herself. Of course, there was an ancient tradition in her family, passed down from generation to generation: The Grangers had always had seven sons in every new family. Whether this uncanny coincidence was due to some ancient forgotten spell or simple coincidence, it remained true that the number seven was a force not to be reckoned with. Hermione's father Risteárd knew that something rather unusual was underfoot when his wife announced that she was pregnant with their eighth child, and his shock increased when the tiny baby born that cold day in September was a girl.

In such stark disregard of tradition, no one was much surprised when Princess Caoimhe died soon after giving birth to the little Hermione, one strong, vibrant life extinguished as another was brought into the world. As the eighth child of the seventh son of the chieftain of Ireland, Hermione was the first daughter born within the Granger ruling family, ever. Because of her exceedingly rare status, she was prissed and pampered, the three house-elves assigned to her incessantly nagging, her older brothers and three and a half dozen cousins treating her like an incredibly delicate jewel.

Hermione sat on the thick stones that comprised her chamber's windowsill, her prized copy of Merlin's adventures settled protectively in her lap as she watched the villagers below mill about on business. The book she owned was a highly treasured one, it having belonged to her grandmother, who had brought it over upon her betrothal from England. Hermione ran a finger over the manuscript's soft pages; they were worn smooth from much use. It was easy to distract herself by watching the colored figure of Merlin bumbling about and producing bright sparks from the end of his wand, pushing her constant thoughts to the back of her skull. Hermione sighed, leaning her head against the cold stone. It was approaching the end of August and the weather was beginning to take a turn for the worse.

Hermione knew she should be thankful, considering that she was a princess and could have nearly whatever she desired, but she still was bereft of one important attribute: the ability to practice magic. Although Hermione had learned to read and write with her brothers like the other noblewomen in Ireland granted the privilege, magic was simply a completely different spectrum.

Starting at the age of eleven, one by one her brothers were whisked away to Hogwarts, the magical school that lay deep within the thick marshes and mountains of Scotland. For years, Hermione had waited earnestly for that most eventful of birthdays, eager to take the long boat ride across the waters to the place of magic and mystery. These grandiose dreams had soon been forcefully crushed by her father's stern scolding, showing that while Ireland was open to new ideas, some old prejudices remained. A young woman of such noble birth was not allowed to practice magic, and instead was to be instructed in the ways of foreign language, dancing and needlepoint so that she would one day make a suitable wife. While she enjoyed weaving, and was more than adequate at producing cloth in only a few hours' time, such idle work did nothing to damper her desire for something more.

Oh, how the magic coursed through her! When Hermione hit puberty the suppressed energy came forth in wild abandon, the random exploding of dishes and color changes of tapestries frightening the house-elves into hysterics. It seemed this excitement was regretfully fleeting for as soon as Risteárd returned from council in Dublin, he "gifted" Hermione the most peculiar of bracelets. Delicately handcrafted from gold and inlaid with rubies, Hermione's initial delight at the trinket turned to horror when her father explained that it was a magic suppressor, removable only by her father or future husband.

Nearly four years later, Hermione still cried over the memory of that fateful day, the delicate tinkling of the charms making the most sinister of music. In spite of her father's cruelty, she took careful notes about the spells her brothers used when they were home on holiday, determined to one day become a magnificent sorceress. Until that day of emancipation, Hermione spent the passing years in study, becoming proficient in all the graces that pleased Prince Risteárd, her mind slowly rotting from hours of listening to the young serving girls squeal over handsome knights. Her diary was the only one to know any of her true feelings, for she didn't want to anger her family members in such times: The Muggles, or non-Magical folk, were making things difficult for Wizards to get the goods essential for everyday living, and her father and his knights were working hard to soothe the conflict.

A knock sounded upon the heavy wooden door of her chamber, causing Hermione to rise from her makeshift chair grudgingly, crossing over to grant entrance. Eilís, Hermione's main lady-of-waiting with fiery red hair and an even more spirited personality, scowled at her on the other side of the door, hands planted firmly on her emerald-clothed hips. "Merlin! Hermione, are you hiding yourself again? The feast's been ongoing for the last hour, your da has been asking for you!"

Hermione grimaced visibly, settling her beloved book in its protective cupboard. "Must I come? He knows I despise such events…"

Eilís rolled her eyes, tugging Hermione's hand. "Ah, Miss, if I looked anything like your ladyship, I would adore such celebrations! The young lads must worship thee!"

Hermione sighed; looking down at the heavy blue velvet gown that Eilís had dressed her in nearly an hour before. It had been a source of frenzy when Hermione hit her teens, for she was the first Granger female to require ladies-in-waiting from their area. The selection had been fierce and their devotion even more intense: her ladies looked up to her in a state of near worship. No wonder she hid all the time: the cooing and compliments became tedious after the sixth time.

"Oh, but your hair has become so mussed! My lady, why do you torment us, when we spend such time making you look presentable as a princess of Ireland should?"

Hermione frowned as Eilís adjusted her thick brown curls, which had been arranged carefully to fall down her back in an orderly fashion. Lords near and far commented on Hermione's gentle beauty, the delicate nose, light freckles and big brown eyes captivating many a young lad. Her hair was another story, as unrelenting and tumultuous as a river in spring, and the chief bane of her servants' existence. After wincing under the efforts of Eilís for nearly a quarter hour, Hermione whisked into the hallway and began to head for the feast, the lady-in-waiting uttering colorful exasperations at her princess's evasiveness.

Life at court was a constant state of madness: the banquet hall was full to bursting at the seams, every chair full of chattering, jostling, and lascivious characters. Prince Risteárd sat at the head table alongside his brother, Prince Breasal. Despite the eager actions of the court fool to engage Hermione's father in amusement, the prince was occupied in the slender blonde seated in his lap, currently whispering secrets into her shell-shaped ear.

Hermione frowned, not bothering to wait for Eilís to catch up with her. She began her journey to the opposite end of the room, bowing graciously at the countless subjects that paid their respects. Hermione was nearly knocked down by a pair of jugglers, but managed to find a seat that had just recently become unoccupied on the left side of the main table. The bright redhead she had seated herself next to was Eirnín, her favourite brother, who also happened to be the closest one to her in age.

"Hermione!" Eirnín exclaimed, looking up from his plate to smile at her, hazel eyes crinkled in mirth. "I thought you'd skipped to the moor! You haven't been hidin' again, have ye?"

Hermione sighed, taking a roll out of the nearest basket and setting it upon her slightly dirty plate, grimacing at the remnants of meat that lined the metal surface. "If only," she replied, wrinkling her nose at the sudden draft of spilled mead hit her nose. "Watching Da with his newest lass does nothing to improve my disposition, or appetite for that matter."

Eirnín nodded, his eyes flicking towards their father and back to Hermione. "Aye, she's certainly pretty enough, but a certain bit of her demeanor seems amiss, like she's hiding something."

"Indeed," Hermione replied, taking a small bite and tried carefully not to spill any crumbs. "Does she not know that she is yet one of many girls to capture Da's attention? Her plots will not come to pass when he tires of her."

"I do hope you are correct," Eirnín responded, looking quite anxious. "He seems usually fond of Fainche, she has managed to survive more than a month in his bed."

Hermione grimaced in response. "I would rather you not speak of our father's sins. I know he still mourns our mother, but must he act in such an appalling manner?"

Eirnín shrugged in response, the corners of his mouth sagging. "I shall try to abstain from vocalizing my views, for the prince himself approaches."

True to her brother's word, the grand prince was stalking in their direction, his muscular bulk dwarfing the small lithe frame of the companion on his arm. Risteárd was genuinely pleased at seeing his only beloved daughter, but the smile upon the face of lovely Fainche was one Hermione could use as a windowpane to view the Irish countryside from.

"Hermione, the jewel of my crown," Hermione's father boomed, drawing the attention of the many subjects that were happily carousing around them. "It is so pleasant to see your lovely face in such inclement weather!"

Hermione and Eirnín bowed at his greeting, the brunette girl skipping forward to press a kiss on her father's cheek. She did her best to greet Fainche with grace, but the lack of true affection was not lost by her older brother, who wore a wry smile upon his boyishly handsome face.

"I have missed you, Da," Hermione replied, setting a hand upon Eirnin's arm in sisterly affection. "Yet another successful banquet, you should be quite pleased."

"That I am, my sweet," Risteárd replied, giving Fainche a loving look from his tall height. "Now that all my kin are with me, I think it is time to make my most blessed announcement."

Soon thereafter the entire hall grew silent, the occupants of the room focused on the sight of Prince Risteárd, who had once again retained his dominant position at the middle of the head table, his blonde companion glued to his side. Hermione and Eirnín were joined at the table by another brother, Cassair, who seemed to be oblivious towards everything that was occurring in the room. Then again, Cassair had a reputation of spending too much time with wenches and brooms than he did at his studies, and possessed a demeanor that was in a constant state of distraction.

"What's Da announcing?" Cassair whispered, his mane of floppy curly red hair obscuring most of his vision. "I'm starving, I wish he'd just get on with it!"

Eirnín and Hermione exchanged a knowing look of exasperation, their eyes directly pulled towards their father with the loud clinking of a gold goblet. Just a few seats away, their father took a large pull of his wine before beginning his speech.

"My lords and ladies," he boomed, all of the servants and lesser folk bowing respectfully. "It has been nigh seventeen years since the passing of our dear Caoimhe. Her beauty and grace still lives on in our hearts, and we should take the time at summer's end to reflect on her premature sleep..."

Eirnín leaned over to Hermione, looking puzzled. "So that's what this is about?" he asked. "A lofty speech to honor Mother?"

Before Hermione could answer the lad, Prince Risteard's speech had taken a decidedly different turn.

"And I believe that our dear late Princess would be pleased to know that I have taken another," Risteárd continued, the banquet hall erupting into whispers, Hermione's face turning stark white and slipping a hand into her brother's. "I will wed the lovely Lady Fainche next month in a ceremony to rival the coronation of the English king!"

The whispers soon gave way to cheers and clapping, the blind masses following their master's judgment without complaint or question. Those closest to the royal family looked utterly confused, talking amongst themselves, and in the case of Eilís, ranting and throwing up their hands. Eirnín turned to Hermione with a furrowed ginger brow, the discomfort of his beloved sister causing a distress most evident on his face.

"Aye, he's gone and done it now," Eirnín scoffed as the happy couple embraced and kissed, to the delight of some and the disgust of many. "Not only is he marrying the wench, he knows very well that your birthday celebrations always are held in September. Has he no respect?"

Hermione sighed deeply, a sudden rush of the contents of her stomach accumulating in her throat. She had never cared dearly for the extravagant week of feasting Prince Risteárd commenced in honor of her early autumn birthday, provided that she had to celebrate with a crowd of people she barely knew even after sixteen years. Turning seventeen wouldn't be any different from any other year, filled with the same lonely revelry, Hermione trying her best to escape at the earliest possible moment. The fact that her father was remarrying after years of continued mourning over his deceased wife was very troublesome, very troublesome indeed. The two lovers had met at the Midsummer's Eve festival, Fainche's father presenting the young noblewoman with the decorum required of such an act. It seemed that Risteárd had fallen devastatingly in love, to the point that he was willing to marry a woman of recently-established reputation at the cost of his daughter's seventeenth birthday celebration.

While she was happy that her father had finally found love again, the duration of time and the social standing of the lady in question had Hermione quite worried, and it seemed to affect Eirnín as well. She had heard her brothers speak of Amortentia, an exceedingly strong brew guaranteed to ensnare the senses of even the most stonyhearted of blokes, but Fainche couldn't have created such a powerful potion…could she?

Cassair shook his head at the news, sitting forward in his chair and piling the pewter plate with meats and cheeses. "Bloody damn speeches," he murmured, seemingly unaffected by his father's words, rather, focused on consuming as much food as was humanly possible.

Eirnín rolled his eyes and joined Hermione, who had sunk low in her seat and was despondently pushing around a lone grape. He gently squeezed his sister's arm to express his allegiance, returning to the hearty stew he'd been originally consuming.

"Perhaps she'll be a wonderful stepmother," Eirnín encouraged, smiling kindly. "An incredibly young stepmother that is our dear brother Cassair's age, but a dear one nonetheless."

Cassair's ears perked at the mention of his name, dropping his chicken bone mid-bite and turning to Hermione eagerly. "How now?" he questioned with an expectant grin, hazel eyes wide.

Eirnín couldn't resist scowling at his brother's self-obsession, sipping from his bowl. "We were speaking of our new stepmother, with which you share a birthday."

"Tis true," Cassair replied, not even pausing his meal to respond. "Do you think she has any sisters with which I could be acquainted?"

Hermione and Eirnín expressed a simultaneous snort, busying themselves with their food as to not answer such a ridiculous question.

* * *

A month later Hermione found herself deep in the forest, on a perilous quest ordained by the cook to collect fresh mushrooms for the magnificent wedding feast in three days' time. Following the usual routine of never being completely alone, the princess was accompanied by four of her ladies, who were too busy giggling over their new gowns to notice that Hermione had slipped into a hidden patch of greenery.

The princess let out a large sigh of relief at the stillness and quiet, adding a few more fungi to her already-bursting basket as she walked further away from her escort. The preparations for the wedding were reaching exorbitant heights; every wish of Lady Fainche's was catered to. Not only would Hermione be expected to make the several hours' journey to the official royal chapel in Dublin, but travel back to court to experience yet another week of drunkenness and debauchery. If she were lucky, she could hide in the Apothecary and daydream the hours away.

Reaching for a particularly colorful mushroom, Hermione heard the faint voice of a female, lilting in a most curious ballad. Pushing her way through a few meters of shrubbery, she encountered a clearing. Although it was small in size, the open space was surprisingly occupied by several figures.

At first Hermione thought her brothers were resting, exhausted by the early morning hunt in which Prince Risteárd had led the castle's men. However, this didn't explain the presence of Fainche, who was leaning over Cassair, tipping a flask to his lips. Sufficiently startled, it took Hermione a few moments that Fainche was administering a potion to her beloved siblings, a treacherous act indeed.

About to burst through the greenery to confront the wicked lady, Hermione was halted by Fainche's gleeful voice, cutting through the silence and directed towards a presence that was undoubtedly not there.

"How witless are these sons of Risteárd, gullible enough to believe the words of a pretty face to find themselves bewitched in the forest. It seems that their blood was not tainted by the whore that they called Mother. My future children deserve the throne over such wretches."

Hermione gasped, barely able to contain her anger at such a blatant falsehood. She summoned up all self-control to hold her tongue, determined to hear the end of Fainche's speech before she commenced further action.

"Tonight they may be men," Fainche sang gleefully. "But upon the morn they will find themselves in a different form altogether. Risteárd will be forced to dismiss them, the shame of having seven thestrals as sons a symbol too daunting to ignore."

Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth in shock, dropping her basket of fungi, the mushrooms scattering in all directions and a few settling upon her feet.

"For the lovely daughter, I have quite a different plan indeed," Fainche concluded evilly. "Once her virtue has been stolen she will be as useful as a broken doll."

Hermione hissed, causing the witch's large green eyes to snap in her direction. She made a motion to move but Hermione was faster, bounding from her hideaway and weaving her way through gnarled trees and thorny briars. The princess heard the voice of Eilís through the trees, beckoning for her lady to return back to the group, but Hermione knew she would never lay eyes on her dear friend again.

Her eyes brought to weeping, Hermione bolted deeper and deeper into the forest, becoming hopelessly lost as to throw off Fainche's search. After running for a near quarter hour, she stumbled upon a root and bruised her jaw against packed earth. Falling to the floor in a heap, her despondency was evident by the matted state of her hair and the rumpled velvet fabric of her gown.

An owl hooted in the faraway darkness, but the comfort she had originally found in the peace and quiet soon turned to inexhaustible trepidation. Indeed, Hermione had anticipated freedom to fill her with joy, but she wished dearly that one of her brothers were by her side, his sword raised in defense against the horrible beasts that occupied such unknown woods.

After wandering about for hours with no sense of destination or direction, Hermione found a soft patch of grass to rest upon. Her fear still immense, it was many hours until the quiet sounds of the forest lulled her to sleep.

It had always filled Hermione with pleasure to have the correct answer, to understand the workings of the perilous world around her. It had been easy to brush off Fainche's malevolent expressions and harsh tongue as mere imagination…how wrong they had been! The fact that her paranoid feelings of doom concerning her stepmother were correct brought her nothing similar to joy.

* * *

Hermione arose just after dawn, the soft chirping of morning birds greeting her as she contemplated how a young woman with no knowledge of forests would find her way out safely. She knew that a day's journey to the north would bring her to the settlement of Dundalk, so heading in that direction would be her best course of action. Hermione was vastly underprepared for such a journey, with no weapon or wand to keep her safe from animal or human foe, and no cloak to keep her warm from the increasingly chilly winds.

Going home for even a moment would be simply impossible; Fainche had her family and friends planted all over the castle due to the upcoming nuptials, no doubt willing to her evil deeds. Hermione decided that leaving without a note would be the best course of action: her father would believe her dead after days of unsuccessful search.

It was a strange thought, being dead to the world. To walk around without family, a face… The nauseous feeling deep in her belly simply increased with every step that she took away from home, trying desperately to turn her mind upon more pleasant things. Gentle sunlight filtered between the trees as Hermione thought upon her dear brothers, forced into such a cruel existence. Being magical, she was well acquainted with Thestrals and their tendency to predict gruesome death, the folklore claiming that a pack of Thestrals had visited a Muggle town a hundred years ago, causing the entire village to succumb to deadly illness. The sweet handsome face of Eirnín appeared in her mind, and it made her weep to know that he would haunt the skies as long as he lived.

Hermione had been walking for several hours before an apparition appeared before her, nestled between the quiet trees. A modest home stood innocently, the thatched roof neat and tidy. Curious to see who would be living so deep in the forest, she quietly approached the dwelling and cautiously peeked around the corner, noise coming from what seemed to be the entrance.

A middle-aged woman was busy brushing fallen leaves off her stoop, shaking her fist at the large golden-hued oak tree that graced the space above her house. Hermione couldn't resist giggling at observing such a scene, which caused the woman to smile amusedly.

"Think I'm funny, do you miss?" she spoke kindly. "What are you doing out in such a wood? Your parents must be having a fright!

Comforted by her tone of voice, Hermione came out from her hiding space, a little smile on her face. The expression on the woman's face was one of astonishment, the midday rays of sun settling on her cheek.

"My, aren't you a pretty one?" Hermione's companion stated. "Might I ask you your name? I am Minerva of Gall."

Hermione bowed in response, keeping her eyes lowered as she did when meeting new people. "My name is Hermione, it's a pleasure."

The woman smiled, curtsying politely. "Such a lovely name for a lovely lass. Have you lost your way, Miss?"

The young brunette frowned, shaking her head. "How I wish my situation were that simple. I have run away, never to return."

"Run away?" Minerva replied, shocked. "Why would you say such a horrible thing?"

Hermione smiled sadly, understanding the heavy implications that came with such a statement. Young woman of her age, and especially of her station, simply _didn't_ run away; without family protection, she would be subject to all the evils of the world, especially the unforgettable horrors of rape and poverty.

Hermione's eyes welled up in tears from fear, looking back at Minerva solemnly. "I have no other choice. To return to the castle would be to lose my life."

Minerva's grey eyes grew wide in realization, sinking to her knees. "Why, you are Princess Hermione! Forgive my impudence in addressing you so familiarly!"

Hermione shook her head, wiping away her tears. "Could you tell me the distance to Dundalk? I must try to find sanctuary."

Minerva rose to her feet, picking up the crude rake that had fallen to the forest floor. "Dundalk is but an afternoon's journey from here, but a young woman should not be traveling in such dark hours. You must stay with me for the night, my dear Princess. You are no doubt exhausted and in need of nourishment, and that I can most readily provide."

Hermione clasped Minerva's hands in her own, a small smile slipping onto her face. "Much thanks to your kindness," Hermione said appreciatively. "I am indebted to you."

Minerva brushed off her oath, black hair swinging about as she turned towards the house. "Come," she urged kindly. "We shall sup and perhaps you could tell me of your troubles."

Hermione's senses told her that this woman of the secluded wood may have answers, and followed her gratefully into the house.


End file.
